My daughter leaned over to whisper in my ear, “See that girl? Third from the right?” I nodded. “She’s awesome.”

We were watching a showcase of performing arts talent on my daughter’s college campus. Seated outside on a glorious fall day, we’d seen students doing modern dance and step. We’d heard a capella renditions of songs by Swift and Sinatra. And now we were getting ready to hear a gospel group sing.

The young woman my daughter pointed out was bespectacled with long, swaying braids. In the second song of the set, she took the microphone and moved one step in front of the group. The leader raised his hands and the keyboardist began to play.

I was ready for something astounding – hadn’t my daughter said this girl was awesome?

When the young woman opened her mouth to sing, I was a little mystified. You see, it was a traditional call-and-response piece and she was taking the lead.

But her vocal range was probably just about four notes, and two of those gave her some trouble.

She was not the most tonally gifted singer I’ve ever heard.

The audience began to fidget in their seats.

But she kept going. And her group kept following her, clapping and swaying in time with the beat.

She’d sing out her line, the rest of the singers harmonized along. She sang with passion, with attention, and with joy.

And she was totally in the moment.

Pretty soon a huge grin took up all the space on my face. Because I finally knew what I was seeing.

I was witnessing a raw display of powerful courage.

This young woman, pushing her glasses up on her nose, was singing her heart out in front of five hundred people.

In front of many of her classmates. Their parents. Their grandparents.

She was even being filmed.

Doing something many of us would shrink from doing if we couldn’t do it absolutely perfectly.

Yep, there she was, standing up in front of her entire community, doing something she loved.

Doing it as if no one was watching.

Doing it for the sheer joy of doing it.

I leaned over to my daughter and said, “She’s the bravest person I’ve seen in a long time.”

Maybe our self-doubt is the dirty little secret we hold extra close for fear that someone will think less of us for not being perfect, or maybe it’s the one thing we talk about the most just to manage other people’s – and our own – expectations.

Regardless, it seems that to be human is to wonder if we have what it takes to do what’s needed to be done.

The writer Marianne Williamson famously said:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

You are powerful beyond measure, my friend. It’s just that sometimes you forget it.

I recently saw the movie “Gravity”, starring Sandra Bullock and George Clooney. I don’t know what I expected – the promos for the film were vague and seemed to feature explosions in space. Not necessarily “my” kind of movie, but then a client raved about it, so I went. And I went big – 3D IMAX.

And I’m extremely glad I did.

While there were quite a few explosions in space, the movie is really about resilience. About stepping beyond your fear. About not knowing what the hell to do next but doing something.

It’s about courage. About love. About the will to live.

Even when you might think you don’t really have that much to live for.

I left the movie feeling drained but inspired, and truly moved. Maybe even changed a little bit.

Because I saw in Sandra Bullock’s tough, unflinching, tender performance the entire gamut of human emotion when faced with a life-or-death kind of struggle. Of course, I asked myself, “Could I? Would I?”

But then, I remembered… I am powerful beyond measure. I could, and I would, if I had to.

It was pretty amazing – as Dr. Ryan Stone’s light shone, mine began to shine, too. I became aware that while I might not always suceed against every adversity, I’d damn sure give it a good try.

I’ll bet you that there is something in your life right now that feels like a huge struggle. There’s something you’re avoiding, or doubting you can pull off. You’re afraid – there are a lot of things that might or could happen.

But, you are stronger than you know, and more resilient than you remember. You may not have the training, or every single tool you might need, or anyone to help you…but take one step toward a solution, then another, and one more, and you will find yourself on solid ground before you know it.

That first post, on October 26, 2006, didn’t even have a title. It just said:

“Each week, I’ll be writing here on a topic of interest. As an Executive Life Coach, I work everyday with people who question whether they’re in the right job — or the right relationship. They ask how they can have more satisfaction in their lives, how they can be clear on their values and goals, how they can find and live their passions…

I’ll be addressing these things and others — so check back in every Monday for thoughts, tips and resources to help you make the most of your life!”

[Note how I laid down an exclamation point right at the end – first of many, obviously.]

The next blog post, Context is Everything, makes me wince, and squinch up my eyes like I do when I hear nails on chalkboard. Perhaps I’m like those actors who can’t bear to watch themselves on film – frankly, I prefer to write, get it out there and not look back. Re-reading this one, I sense my first-time uncertainty, anxiety, worry, what-the-hell-am-I-doing fear. Poor little old nervous 2006 me.

But you have to start somewhere, and that was my start.

People often ask me how I can write 600 words every week for so many years. Where do the ideas come from? What’s my process?

I usually make up an elaborate story about struggle, sacrifice, and angst (and pirates or Vikings) that seems to satisfy them, they go away and I feel extremely relieved.

Because the truth is, I have a weird process – if you can even call it that.

Here’s what I do: I start looking for a topic in the beginning of the week. I keep my ears open and hear what my clients and friends are talking about. Throughout the week, I turn ideas over and play with phrases and concepts.

And then on Saturday, or even Sunday, I sit down to write. Doesn’t take too long.

Because it’s pretty much fully written in my head.

When I look at that very first post – where I promised to write on topics of interest to you – kind of astounding in retrospect that I’ve hewed pretty close to those subjects for nearly six years.

And I appreciate each of you who read what I write. I appreciate your kind notes to me after you’ve read something I’ve posted. I appreciate the thoughtful comments you leave at michelewoodward.com.

I love when you suggest topics.

I really love that.

But most of all, I so very deeply appreciate that every week you invite me into your lives. You allow me to share my thoughts, my learning and my experience. You give me a place to be fully myself, and I write each week in the hope that you can have a place to be fully yourselves, too.

Yes, writing this blog has taken focus, and diligence, and – sometimes – courage.

But it’s been fun. And I’ve liked it. And you seem to like it.

So I’ll make this deal with you: If you’ll keep having me, I’ll keep going.

Who knows where the next 300 Sundays will take us, but it’ll be so great to get there together.

“What if,” I asked myself this week, “what if one person could fundamentally change an organization by simply demonstrating integrity?”

Can you imagine? An organization built on integrity?

No lying about the product or its benefits, or subterfuge on where a non-profit spends its money.

No cheating on quality or tax returns. No cheating while on the road.

No stealing someone’s idea and claiming it as the company’s own. No stealing from pension funds. No stealing steaks out the back door of the restaurant.

No fudging about how much radioactive water is gushing into the Pacific. No fuzzy rhetoric on the federal budget.

Imagine.

People would be predictable. They’d be honorable. They’d say what they mean. They’d lead from strength rather than fear. They’d make good decisions and they’d succeed.

And if there was a problem, they’d own up to it and deal with it. Because they’d handle it from confidence rather than frantic CYA.

You might call this pie in the sky. But I know different.

See, I have not always been a person of integrity. This is not an easy thing to admit. In my younger years, I often said one thing and did another. I struggled to keep confidences. My talk and my walk were out of sync. I would say yes when I meant no, and no when I meant yes.

I fudged. I was unpredictable. I dodged. I integrated CYAing. I totally CYAed for my bosses.

I lied. I cheated. I stole.

And just writing that makes me wince. And want to stop typing and go have a sugary treat. And/or bourbon.

But what I know about this time of my life is this: I was miserable. I worked in miserable places. And I imagine I sowed the seeds of miserablity everywhere I went.

Fortunately, I had a few hard knocks, grew up and finally figured out that I could simply decide to be the kind of person I wanted to be.

So I did.

Who did I aspire to be? Someone who:

Was accountable for my decisions

Explained clearly and without blame when I changed my mind

Was reliable

Was consistent

Told the truth

Lived the truth

Honored my values

Was comfortable in my own skin

More pie in the sky? Let me tell you, at first this took constant, continuing consciousness. It was almost as if I stopped myself every moment and asked, “Is this how I want to be in the world?” If the answer was no, or I felt even the slightest bit icky, I chose the integrity path.

Which sometimes required courage. And difficult conversations. And no small measure of uncomfortableness.

Like when you break any habit.

Just imagine for a minute. What if organizations broke the CYA habit, and shifted to an integrity model? If just one person dropped the miserable fear and stood up to integrity in that non-profit, or that corporation, or that family-owned business, or that church, or that temple, or that government office – can you imagine? She might inspire one other person to start living his integrity. And another. And another. And pretty soon, there would be no more CYA.

Freedom is a precious, precious thing, bought with tears, with blood, with lives. We’ll fight wars for autonomy. Immigrants will travel the seas for independence. People will die for liberty.

I adore my personal freedoms, and will go to my grave supporting your right to have your own, too. It’s just that important.

But freedom has a twin brother, without whom freedom cannot exist.

And his name is courage.

Yes, courage is often what you think it is – facing down the gun barrel of an enemy and moving forward despite the risk. Courage is racing into a burning building to save lives. Courage is heroic, and in the moment, and the kind of thing we witness and say, “wow.”

But there is courage, sometimes, in just waking up. In breathing. In continuing to live. In choosing integrity. Day after day, despite the risks, being your best self. Making the small but tough choices. Teaching your children well.

Today, I will celebrate freedom. And I will also laud courage. Because when one is tested, both are tried.

Courage and freedom – hand in hand, building this country. And, every day, building our lives.

Sometimes you read a book at precisely the right time for precisely the right reason, and take away precisely the right message. So it was for me and the book Broken For You by Stephanie Kallos.

It’s the story of people who attempt to hide their brokenness by changing their names, taking on fruitless quests, hiding in lonely isolation or liberally using Guarnier Nutrisse Conditioning Color Masque Number 68.

Wanda Schultz has too many cracks to count. The product of a broken home, she begins fixing things at age six in a canny effort to fit in at her adoptive aunt and uncle’s home. As an adult, she chooses a “fixing” career, too, becoming a professional stage manager, fixing productions, actors, props and sets. The more she tries to ignore her brokenness the more cracks and fissures grow until, literally, her body is shattered and she must come to terms with her authentic self.

Margaret Hughes lives alone in a mansion, among the ghosts of people and things that once held so much meaning but also so much guilt. When Margaret opens her house to boarders — Wanda is the first — she finds the glue to mend her fractured life and let go of her paralyzing guilt and shame.

How many of us spend an inordinate amount of energy hiding our broken places? Pretending they don’t exist? We seek out the healing adhesive we think can be found in that one person, that one experience, that one surgical procedure, that one elusive Holy Grail of Something that will make us perfect, and make our troublesome pasts disappear. Yet, it’s only in accepting our broken places and applying a little grout and glue, that we are able to accept the authentic, happy mosaic of our lives.

From the book: “Look then at the faces and bodies of people you love. The explicit beauty that comes not from smoothness of skin or neutrality of expression, but from the web of experience that has left its mark. Each face, each body is its own living fossilized record. A record of cats, combatants, difficult births; of accidents, cruelties, blessings. Reminders of folly, greed, indiscretion, impatience. A moment of time, of memory, preserved, internalized and enshrined within and upon the body. You need not be told that these records are what render your beloved beautiful. If God exists, He is there, in the small cast-off pieces, rough and random and no two alike.”

Beauty, then, has nothing to do with age, or position, or value, or perfection. Beauty lies in the ability to look fearlessly at your own broken spots, mend them and make a new creation. Beauty comes when you allow others to know you for exactly who you are — chipped, cracked, fractured — and whole despite your broken places.

This is the week that we in America celebrate our independence. It was in 1776 that a courageous group of men listed the colonies’ grievances against the King of Britain, carefully building a case for all this paragraph holds:

“We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these united Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States, that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. – And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”

The 56 signers of the Declaration of Independence risked treason — the penalty for which was hanging. Benjamin Franklin adroitly punned that punishment when he remarked to some anxious signers, “We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately.”

These men were willing to risk their lives for freedom. And on this Independence Day, let’s remember their courage and commitment, and be grateful for it.

A few years ago, I visited the USS Arizona Memorial in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. On just one day — December 7, 1941 — 1,177 crew members lost their lives when the ship went down in a direct act of war. Today, if you visit the memorial, you can still see oil bubbling up from below — and you can still feel the spirit of those who gave their all that day.

In all of World War II, some 407,000 Americans were killed in combat. In Korea, 36,940 were lost. In Vietnam, 58,486 gave their lives. In Desert Storm, 255 died. And, to date, in Afghanistan and Iraq, 3,965 Americans have fallen.

This Independence Day, let’s take a moment to thank all who have served, all who have died — those who are still missing, and the families and communities who have loved, supported, and, too often, buried, our soldiers.

Today, America still produces men and women — much in the spirit of the Founders — who are willing to risk their lives for freedom. And on this Independence Day, let’s remember their courage and commitment, and be grateful for it.